


ten times faster than the setting sun

by devicing



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: /finger guns, Character Study, Gen, You Decide, gratuitous references to japanese literature, is this gen fic or just really subtle shipping?, this was extremely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 14:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devicing/pseuds/devicing
Summary: Ouma chases the Tower of Syracuse, praying he'll make it back before sunset.(Or, the many people Ouma Kokichi offered up for the sake of winning the game)[major spoilers for all of V3]





	ten times faster than the setting sun

**Author's Note:**

> _Start running, Melos_  
>  _Though your odds of winning are slim_  
>  _You’ve got nothing more than your life_  
> 
> _Start running, Melos_  
>  _This is the end, after all_  
>  _May the gods be your witness_
> 
> [Melos — Wednesday Campanella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qPSHOTzidw)

 

The floor of the library is an even more cluttered, chaotic mess than usual, and this time sitting crosslegged at the head of it—like a king at his court—is Ouma.

“Watch your step!” he chirps, eyes glinting over the top of the dusty book he has fanned almost coyly in front of his face. 

Saihara hesitates, one hand cautiously braced against the wooden arch of the doorframe as though it could shield him where his hat no longer does. It would be very easy to turn tail and slink back to his room, but that would be giving back in to the impulses, wouldn’t it? He’s getting better at not letting their whispers get to him. At least, he’d like to believe he is. 

The door falls heavily back into place behind him as he moves forward. Ouma’s eyes crinkle at the corners in an unseen grin before he dives back into his current novel.

For how many books there are littering the floor, the towering bookcases don’t seem any more empty than usual. To Saihara’s right and left are piles and piles of the things—some neatly stacked, some simply haphazard mounds of bent pages. If there’s an order to the chaos, it’s not apparent at first glance. 

In the center of it all is a new, sloping mountain of hardcovers and paperbacks alike. Somewhere in Saihara’s periphery he sees a book go flying, but Ouma’s hand darting into that central mound for another one grabs his attention instead. It’s as though he’s looking for something specific, though he doesn’t seem too fixated on the covers. Instead, Ouma carefully flips through each page as he goes. Curious. 

Saihara jolts when Ouma’s voice cuts through the silence. “Y’know, returning to the scene of the crime is a _really_ tired trope, Saihara-chan. I mean, it was always going to be hard to top the exciting ride Akamatsu-chan put us through, but you could always get points for the callback! I’m sure critics will _love_ it.”

Saihara swallows, willing his voice not to shake when he says, “I’m just looking for something to read before curfew. That’s all.” He tiptoes around another leaning tower. _Kokoro, Natsume Souseki_ , the title of the topmost book reads.

Ouma sighs and slumps back against a stack of books to his side. The pile deflates under his weight, spilling books and dust everywhere. He slides along with it into a lazy sprawl. “What a let down! That might have actually made this night memorable.”

“Why are you in here, Ouma-kun?” Saihara asks.

“I came here to commune with the spirit of my dearest Amami-chan, of course! If I concentrate _reeeeaaaal_ hard, it’s almost like I can still feel his presence…” Ouma punctuates the statement with a large, watery, and incredibly false sniffle. 

Suddenly his gaze cuts sharp from across the room, lancing Saihara with its strange, dark intensity. “Actually, if you’re not here to pull the trigger on me, I could always use a blood sacrifice. Shinguuji-chan had some really neat books with even neater ideas I’d _love_ to try out. You’re definitely type A, right? Or maybe AB.”

Ignoring the obvious bait, Saihara takes a book off the top of another stack: _The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Murakami Haruki._ “What do all of the different piles mean?”

Ouma stares at him for a long moment before lazily dragging his eyes back to the book in his hands. “Aw, it’s no fun when you don’t even pretend to play along, Saihara-chan. This really is going to be just another boring night after all.”  

Saihara lets the silence linger, and just as he predicted, Ouma eventually pouts and moves to fill it. “Well, _you’re_ the Detective here. If you want to know, figure it out yourself. Or is that Ultimate title of yours just a participation prize?” 

Saihara’s not usually the kind of person who rises to this kind of baiting, but he can’t fully deny his own curiosity. Besides, the situation is low stakes enough that the familiar, nervous churning in the pit of his belly is only a quiet rumble. The entire room is like a puzzle waiting to be solved; even more so, the boy at the center of it all. He glances at his Monopad: 9:17pm.

“Aw, turn that frown upside-down!” Ouma calls out, snapping his current book shut and tossing it off to the side. “You’ve got all night to put the pieces together, and I know you wanna! Granted, every minute it takes you is a point I’m counting against that so-called genius noggin of yours…”

“I know the library is exempt from the curfew,” Saihara begins. “But I don’t want to be out past the nighttime announcement, in case…” 

His eyes dart unbidden to the far corner of the room. Its presence looms. He wonders if he’ll still see the blood between the tiles if he looks hard enough. He’s not sure if the itchy sensation under his skin is from wanting to get away or wanting to go find out. He almost doesn’t want to know.

“Fine, fine,” Ouma says, sparing him the need to fill in the blanks. “Well, if you’re gonna be such a goody-two-shoes then you’d better get going! Tick-tock, Saihara-chan! Don’t disappoint!”

As Ouma ducks back into his book, Saihara makes his way over to the latest discarded treasure pile and picks up the most recently-tossed novel. _Temple of the Golden Pavillion, Mishima Yukio._

Saihara feels a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. The challenge is… exciting, in a way. He’s always liked puzzles. While he’s known Ouma for all of a few days, he already puzzles Saihara more than most.

He smoothes out some of the bent pages and gets to work.

  

By 9:51, he eventually finds his way over to Ouma, now lounging unabashedly on top of one of the smaller bookshelves. The boy grins down at him and his book-laden arms as he approaches. “Cutting it close, aren’t you?”

Saihara absently hums in response, eyes too busy glancing over the shelves.

That doesn’t seem to placate Ouma, who prods further. “So, what’s my secret?” He gasps, “Don’t tell me you found the magic circle I hid under all those pesky books? Oh, Amami-chan will be _so_ happy to hear that you’re willing to take his place!”

“Oh,” Saihara raises his free hand to tug at his hat before he remembers that it’s no longer there. He settles for his bangs instead. “I actually stopped trying to find a pattern a while ago. Sorry.”

“Ehhh?” Ouma whines as he pushes himself up on one elbow. His eyes are blown wide to enhance the effect. “You gave up? After Amami-chan and I worked _so_ _hard_ to set it all up?  

Saiharakneels down to look at the selection the shelf has to offer. “I just didn’t see much of a point in continuing when there was no pattern to the piles to begin with." He hears Ouma pause half-way through flipping a page and smiles to himself. A small victory. "I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He drags his finger across a few of the book spines, reading their titles to himself as he goes. Nothing in particular grabs his attention. He moves to a different shelf and repeats the motion.

Finally, he hears Ouma sigh above him. “That was so anticlimactic I almost want to cry. Aren’t you mad that I wasted all of your time?”

Saihara glances up, smiling just a little. “I’m not mad. I found a lot of interesting novels that I probably wouldn’t have noticed if they’d been on the shelves.”

“Booooooring.” Ouma falls back into his earlier sprawl. A cloud of dust takes flight into the air. “The least you could do is send someone else down here to actually give me a fun reaction. Like Iruma-chan. Ooh, or Momota-chan!”

“I think I’ll let them sleep,” Saihara replies. He picks himself up off of the floor. When he stands up fully, he finds himself now at eye-level with the reclined Ouma. “Did _you_ find anything interesting?”

Ouma sends him a bland look as he turns another page. “Hardly. No fun books, no fun clues, not even a new fun motive! What a guy gotta do to get this game rolling, huh?”

“Is that what you’ve been looking for?”

Ouma’s gaze darts to him from the corner of his eyes. “Which part, the clues or the motive?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.  


Saihara thinks for a moment. “Either, I suppose.”

Ouma clicks his tongue. “No no, it’s not _either,_ it’s _or_ , Saihara-chan. A clue and a motive can be very different things.”

“Can they?”

“Ahhh, leading the suspect. Very clever.” Ouma sits up into a crosslegged position and leans close into Saihara’s face. “But I’ll play along and answer your question: it all depends on your perspective! Or it depends on the clue. Same difference, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, all squares are quadrilaterals but not all quadrilaterals are squares, y’know?” Ouma twirls a stray strand of hair with a bored expression. “Seriously, are you _sure_ you’re a detective?”

That one smarts too much for Saihara’s taste. He feels shame prickle red hot at his cheeks, so he turns to what he knows best and hopes he’ll prove Ouma wrong. The gears begin to turn as he rises to the challenge, even if he still can’t bring himself to look the boy directly in the eye. 

“You’re obviously looking for something in particular,” he begins. “If you were looking for one book specifically, you’d only need to look at the cover. To me, it looks like you’re looking for a hint in the _contents_ of the books. Am I right?”  

Instead of flinching back, Ouma just smiles. His Cheshire-cat grin splits from ear to ear. “Go on.”

“Well, I picked up all of the books you went through since I started,” he gestures to the stack in his arms, “and I crosschecked them with the organizational layout of the shelving. Even though you made it look like you were picking books at random, you actually had all the ones you wanted carefully placed throughout the room, right? Was that to make what you were reading less noticeable? And if so, to whom?” He pauses. Frowns. “Me?”

“Does Sherlock Holmes usually stall with this many questions?” Ouma rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “You’re really killing my buzz here, Saihara-chan. This isn’t getting me into the mood at all.”

Ignoring that, Saihara continues. “All of the books that you chose came from the far corner. The 910s, Japanese Literature. It’s also… where the hidden door is.”

Ouma doesn’t move, but Saihara can almost swear he sees something flicker in his expression as his lips curl up into a dangerous grin. “I told you I wanted to be closer to dear Amami-chan, didn’t I?”

Saihara is about to brush that off as another deflection, but something makes him pause. He considers the thought for a moment. “You did, didn’t you…”

From where he’s standing, the crime scene lingers just beyond Ouma’s shoulder. Without taking his eyes off of the back wall, Saihara walks closer to the low shelf and absently places the stack of books in his hands on top of it next to Ouma. He rests his hands on them, staring long and hard at the far-off shelving as though he could draw an answer out of them just like that. Something in the books. Ouma was looking for something in the books, but what of note could possibly be hiding in the books?

A thought occurs to him. 

“We never figured out how Amami-kun knew about the door, or _what_ he knew about it,” Saihara mutters, mostly to himself. He lifts a hand up to his chin and frowns. “We could just assume he noticed the lack of books on top like I did, but there were already signs that the door had been opened before I got there. Who’s to say books hadn’t been there before, but fell whenever the door was opened the first time? There _were_ some piled up _beside_ the door, after all…”

“Mmmm I’m definitely feeling it now!” 

Saihara continues over him in a quiet mumble. “But that still doesn’t explain how he would have found it in the first place. Was he just lucky, or did he have extra information?” He looks further to the left, to where the hidden door seems to loom over the rest of the room. “I guess I can see where you would think he might have found or hidden a clue in the books, but—”

“You know what would be really helpful in this kind of situation?” Ouma interrupts, his voice much closer than Saihara remembered. “That super neat seance I mentioned, so _hurry up and give me your blood_!”

Ouma’s sudden forceful tone shocks Saihara out of his deductive daze. He swivels his head and finds himself at once staring right back into the boy’s deep, dark eyes, only a scant few inches away from his own. He jolts, falling back a step. His eyes dart down and away, catching on the first thing they spot. 

“Dazai Osamu?” he stutters out unthinkingly, staring at the current book dangling from Ouma’s hand. It’s an anthology, but not one he recognizes.

The book rises out of Saihara’s line of sight as Ouma lifts it back up. He turns it lazily in his hands, considering it with a neutral expression, before flipping it back open to his previous page. He scans it briefly. 

When he speaks, his voice lowers to a gruff rumble, or at least as much of one as he can manage. “ _‘What would you do with that dagger of yours?’ the tyrant Dionysius demanded with quiet majesty. The king’s face was pallid, and lines were etched in deep between his brows. ‘Speak!’_ ”

Saihara frowns, the words familiar enough to strike a chord but not enough to bring to mind a title. 

Ouma’s eyes crinkle mischievously at Sahara over the top of the book before he snaps it closed and declares, voice booming, “ _‘I would deliver the city from the hands of a tyrant!’_ ” With that he throws his head back, casting the book to the sky with a flourish. 

The paperback gracelessly pinwheels in the air as Ouma cackles. Before he can think, Saihara quickly stumbles after it, aiming below its shadow. 

By some miracle he manages to catch it just before it crashes to the floor. He breathes a sigh of relief. As he rights himself, he makes sure all the pages are flattened before he folds the book closed again. Then, he glances disapprovingly back over to the culprit. 

Ouma grins at him, reclining back on his arms. “Nice catch!”

“Tired of this one already?” Saihara asks, unable to tamp down the retaliatory dryness of his voice. 

“Not my style,” Ouma replies with a wave of his hand. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bookshelf and hops to the floor. Patting the backs of his legs and the seat of his pants to rid them of all traces of dust, he makes his way off to another stack of books, this time by the door at the opposite end of the room. “The _shounen_ protagonist archetype is so bland. Just look at Momota-chan.” He points a finger at his mouth and gags as he circles the stack. “Can’t relate!” 

Saihara follows after him and watches as he picks up another book without even looking. “Do you really think the Mastermind left a hint about the door in one of the books?” 

Ouma leans around the book stack to look back at him. 

His expression is neutral, almost unsettlingly so, which somehow contradicts the severity of his gaze. Saihara’s breath hitches.

It only lasts a second, though. Saihara blinks and suddenly every trace of that intensity is gone, as though swept away by the shooing gesture Ouma now aims at him. “Of course not. Been there, done that. I’m on to bigger and better mysteries now, try to keep up.”

That throws Saihara for a loop. He blinks rapidly, feeling suddenly off balance. “What?”

“You’re the one who asked,” Ouma replies blithely. Saihara moves towards him, but he ducks to the far side of the book stack. “Though I could just be lying to throw you off my trail.”

Saihara tries to follow him again, trying to get a good look at his face, but Ouma continues to move around in circles. “Then what have you been doing here? And why would you lie to me?”

“I like the thrill of the race, but there can only be one winning horse, y’know!” he crows, but the sound cuts off abruptly. He pauses, face going strangely blank, and Saihara has to jerk to a halt before he runs into him. “ _Horse_ …,” he mutters.

Suddenly Ouma digs a hand deep into his pocket to produce a tiny notepad and pen. He quickly thumbs through the pages. Over his shoulder, all Saihara can see are lines and lines of seemingly random, repetitive phrases. Almost all of them have lines crudely scratched through them. If he squints, he can just make out some of the repetitive words… — _rus_ - _Rabbit, Taurus-Dragon, Taurus-Sna—_

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ouma suddenly asks, eyes darting up over his shoulder at Saihara for just a second before they go back to scanning the current page.

“Wha—”

Before Saihara can say anything further, a familiar chime begins to play from the speaker overhead. He pales, already reaching into his pocket for the Monopad he hopes will tell him differently. 

“See? Time’s up, Saihara-chan!” Ouma sing-songs as Saihara stares at the blinking clock face.  

10 o’clock, on the dot. 

Saihara eyes the main door and bites his lip. “I guess it is…”

Ouma lets out a whine, the pen and notepad already gone from his hands as he swings them petulantly at his side. “Saihara-chan, are you really gonna leave me all alone here?”

Saihara frowns. “Weren’t you just pushing me to leave?” 

“Was I?” Ouma says, his head tilted to the side and eyes innocently wide. “That would be awfully rude of me.”

Saihara wants to dig deeper, but the Monokubs’ usual banter sounds like it’s starting to near its end. It’s silly to think so, but the room already seems darker, more ominous. Ouma’s eyes seem to darken as well as they bore into him expectantly. Saihara tries to swallow down his growing anxiety.

“I guess I’ll see you in the morning, Ouma-kun,” he says, trying to manage a smile. Before Ouma can respond, he turns on his heel and starts towards the exit, an urgency to his step. He pushes past the door, belatedly remembering the book in his hand as he goes. He’ll return it tomorrow, in the safety of the morning. 

Even without looking back, he can hear the smile in the boy’s laughter as it echoes after him.

 

“ _Run, Melos!_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

  

Gonta becomes the first Selinuntius.

It’s not exactly by design, though. There’s a distinct lack of emotional weight, and really, isn’t that kind of the crux of the character? Sure, Ouma established a silly, teasing rapport with the guy to sate the mastermind and maintain the act, but it’s hard to truly be attached to anyone when everyone is… _no one_ , really. In a game where all the pieces were so obviously churned out of predetermined molds, Gonta’s role was always meant to be a simple but effective one. He is a piteously affable thing who was made to break. 

 

_(still, that doesn’t mean Ouma wanted to be the one to break him)_

 

Try as they all might to deflect, the truth is just an inevitability they all have to accept. Yes, he’s the one who agreed to go into the virtual world. He was the one who walked straight into the lion’s den. He’s the one who planted the seeds of despair in Gonta’s head. 

_But,_ while he might have loaded the bullets, the sad truth they so desire is that it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger in the end.  


He says as much, to varying results. 

Across the way, Momota white knuckles his podium in a grip Ouma’s sure he’d love to have wrapped around his throat instead. He needs the wakeup call the most of all of them, so what a surprise that he’s taking it the worst of all of them, too. 

Beside him, Maki’s own anger is a quieter and ultimately more deadly thing as it festers and simmers just below the surface. Like a pit viper waiting to strike, it’s unlikely she’ll be offering any more warnings his way until it’s too late. There’s probably an inevitable confrontation brewing there, but not one for today. 

Next to them both, the robot’s silly gears whir as he scrambles to make sense of it all. At Ouma’s side, Yumeno ducks her little head away from what she doesn’t want to hear. Further off, Shirogane fidgets. 

Gonta simply cries and cries and cries. 

And then there’s Saihara, caught in what looks like a finicky conundrum. Of course he’d figured the trick out before the rest of them. Objectively sussing out the _how_ s of every case has proven to be his forte, and this time around is no exception. It’s the _why_ here that seems to stump him. Ouma watches as his lips press into a thin line as his hand taps thoughtfully at his chin. While the rest of them devolve into hysteria, Saihara’s still doing his darnedest to slot ever puzzle piece into place. 

It’s too bad Ouma’s been carefully making himself into the one puzzle even _he_ shouldn’t be able to solve.

 

_(though it’d be nice if he’d try)_

 

As Saihara spells it all out and they all take turns reveling in their disbelief, Ouma leans his elbows against the podium and plasters on a smile and waits. Three times they’ve been through this song and dance, watching desperation make murderers out of their cohorts. 

For ideals, for patriotism, for love, and now, in Iruma’s case, for an odd mix of fear and ego.

Too bad that didn’t quite go the way she’d planned, did it? Oh, she certainly made a valiant effort, but it was a fool’s errand trying to pull the wool over someone so adept in lying to begin with! That had been her first mistake, and ultimately her last. 

Ouma fights the urge to sneer, hiding it behind a Cheshire smile as the cacophony continues. Iruma had wanted a killing so badly, and look where her efforts had landed her! No better than the three before! It was her own fault in the end, wasn’t it? The least he could do for them all was try to spin her mistake into something useful. 

If he’s going to be the one to end this game, it’s what had to be done.

 

_(try as he might to ignore it, the excuse still tastes awful)_

 

So here they are, at the denouement of yet another trial that could have never been if they hadn’t all fallen right in line with Monokuma’s pied-piper song. Just like Gonta, they all played into their predetermined parts so well, and he prepares to do the same. In that way, maybe it will matter in the end. Simple as all of their roles have made them, they need something a little more concrete to aim their pitchforks at. If not the mastermind, still too nebulous for them to grasp, then perhaps himself. 

So he gives them what they need: simple, naïve Gonta, sacrificed to guide their simple, naïve moralities to the simple, naïve truth they all desperately want to cling to. Alter Ego’s tinny voice spills it all, and Ouma lets his tears spill out as he lays into them. It’s all just another act to lead into the grand finale, after all.

 

_(it’s not)_

 

The full truth—the one that he’ll leave for them to decipher on their own—is that it had to be done, not just for his sake, but for everyone’s. The game piece was willing and time was running out and Ouma had a bet on his life that he was _not_ willing to cash in yet. _Not_ when he’s so close. _Not_ when his death would still be so meaningless at this point. _Not_ when they were still so willingly blind to the real villain lurking in the shadows.

Still, a voice at the back of his mind mutters.

 

「 _Soon your beloved friend will pay with his life for his trust in you._

_O unfaithful one, are you not just as the king suspected?_ 」

 

That was what it all boiled down to in the end. If Gonta had to be the scapegoat sacrificed for the reveal to be _just_ right, then so be it.

 

「 _Could I but cut open this breast that you might see the crimson_

_of my heart, whose very lifeblood is love and truth._ 」

 

No, he doesn’t really mind.

 

「 _Forgive me, Selinuntius. You were constant in your trust in me._ 」

 

That’s what he tells himself as the sun slowly sets behind Gonta’s charred remains and the tear trails down his cheeks turn tacky.

Chin dipped down to the ground, hidden from the rest of the world, Ouma sneers at his own conceit and defiantly bites back another round of tears for the simple, naïve boy who cared too much.

But he can’t sit back now. No, not yet. Not this sunset. Not with Dionysius still sitting so prettily upon his throne, so sure of his ideals.

(“What kind of secret would push Gonta that far?” Shirogane demands of him from somewhere beyond the curtain of his bangs.)

Another day will come, and with it another chance to race the sun.

For now, though, his audience is ready, and he mustn’t keep them waiting.  

 

 

( _More precisely, Alter Ego becomes the first Selinuntius, and not a very good one at that._

_After all, he never asked for Melos to make it back in time_.)

 

* * *

 

 

Back and forth, back and forth. The fletchings on the crossbow bolt catch the fluorescent lighting so prettily as Ouma twirls the rod between the fingers of his left hand. Little speckles of blood drip off the end to create lovely, macabre patters along his coat sleeve. He smells copper in the air and tastes metal on the back of his tongue. 

“ _Curare_ ,” he idly remarks, watching his own blood catch along the syrupy tack coating the arrowhead.

“What?” asks a voice from over his shoulder. 

“Or something like it,” Ouma responds, not really a response at all. He tries to twirl the arrow for another round, but a sudden spasm takes control of his hand and sends the bolt slipping through his fingers. Ah, he thinks as he watches it clatter to the ground out of reach, not curare. But certainly in the same ballpark. If he’s right, that only gives them a few hours at best. He frowns. How he always hated deadlines.

He hears Momota click his tongue. “Whatever.” A pause, then, “Hey, this one’s gonna hurt even more so… I dunno. Find something to bite down on.”

Ouma tilts his head back to look him in the eye. He grins lazily. “Kinky.”

It’s worth it for the way Momota sneers back at him. Worth it for the way it’s not nearly as fearsome as he probably thinks it is. There’s a hesitance in Momota’s eyes that’s almost sweet. Like he actually cares about Ouma’s wellbeing. It’s laughable, really. “So you don’t bite through your own tongue, asshole.”

“Mm, for once in your life you’re right. That would certainly put a damper on our plans!”

Ouma notes the way that Momota flinches with his whole body, lip curling and eyes darting down. Always so expressive, so honest in everything he does. A sharp twinge in Ouma’s back means he probably tightened his grip on the bolt, too. Yikes, that one really _is_ going to hurt. 

“ _Your_ plans,” Momota eventually mutters, still staring fixedly down at what Ouma assumes is where the bolt has speared his back. “This was all your plan.”

Ouma regards him cooly, then turns his head forward again. “To-may-toes, to-mah-toes. Now be a dear and get this over with, or else I’ll keel over before the real fun can even begin. Tick-tock, Momota-chan!”

As he waits for Momota to do the deed, he shuffles a bit in place, feeling antsy. Jittery. Maybe he’s just trying to find a position that’s comfortable enough for… well, for what, exactly? Ripping an arrow out of his spine? A moot point. Maybe he just wants to shake up the stiffness clawing up his legs.  

Ah, definitely _nux-vomica_. A shame too, since that means the poison is making quicker work of him than he expected. And here he was hoping he could stave off the symptoms out of sheer willpower alone. Then again, life is always more interesting when it goes against expectations, isn’t it?

 

 _(…isn’t it?)_  

 

The thought is cut off as something cold and hard lightly taps against his cheek. Ouma blinks to steady his suddenly fuzzy vision, eyes coming into focus on the thin, hooked bit of metal at the corner of his eye. 

Behind him, Momota scoffs. “I told you, I’m not doing this until your ready. _Really_ ready.”

The _kiseru_ pipe is plain and simple. No carvings on the neck, nor the bowl. The wood is a rich, dark mahogany, but nothing more than that stands out. Simple. Ouma’s never taken a good look at it before, but he finds he’s… surprised. Or perhaps disappointed. The thing is so drab, not nearly as ostentatious as he would have expected. 

_A bland and boring pipe for a bland and boring boy_ , he thinks as he slips the wood between his teeth. He doesn’t think about how it sounds false to even his own ears. 

When the bolt is torn out of his back moments later, Ouma clenches his jaw and _chokes_ on the raw need to scream, but still he refuses to make a sound. Even as the fire in his back clashes with the pins-and-needles spreading through the rest of him, even without a single camera present, he won’t give the game that satisfaction.

The voice comes again.

「 _I overcame the raging river. I escaped the brigands who surrounded me,_

 _and ran to the foot of the mountain without a moment’s rest._ 」 

 

When he shakily pries the pipe from his lips another moment after that, he can’t help but marvel at the teeth marks etched deep into the wood. The deep hollows of the bicuspids, the sharp line of the canines. The wood had even fractured in some places, leaving spiderweb-thin cracks through the varnish. 

_Not so bland and boring now_ , he thinks, turning it over in the light as Momota futilely holds his palm against the hole in his back to staunch the blood oozing out of him.

Whether pipes or people, he’s gotten so good at leaving his mark, hasn’t he? 

So good at breaking things for the sake of his ambitions.

He sneers against the pain.

 

「 _Who but I could have made it this far?_ 」

 

 

 

( _In his complicity, Momota takes the stage as the second Selinuntius, but they were always both running on borrowed time and Ouma knows neither of them will live to see the setting of the sun._ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s hard to focus on precise timing while forcefully fighting round after round of painful muscle spasms, but somehow he manages. The hydraulic press grinds to a halt just as the last sliver of Momota’s wrist disappears out of frame. A moment later, the boy emerges from the belly of the beast, looking shaken to the core, but otherwise unharmed. 

Ouma mentally ticks off another box on his dwindling checklist.

As Momota approaches, he foregoes letting the other boy in on how close to death he’d come in favor of a kinder jab. “Welcome back, Momota-chan! Need help finding your sea-legs?”  

Momota steadies a hand on the handrail leading up to the platform and glowers. “Like you’d be any better,” he grumbles.

Ouma leans over the control panel at that challenge, an easy smile curling up at the corners of his mouth. “Well my turn’s up next, right? I’ll make sure to come back to haunt you to prove my vastly superior mental fortitude.” 

Parsing out Momota Kaito’s cowardices is its own brand of sadistic entertainment. Jabs at his pride and the supernatural are low-hanging fruit that are easy to exploit, but lack any real weight. The hard truth, though, now that is a much more satisfying button to push, watching him try to squirm away from the very thing he preached trial after trial after trial. The irony is delicious.

“Don’t joke about that,” Momota says from behind grit teeth, looking anywhere but at Ouma’s needling smile, and Ouma wants to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Instead, he stubbornly ignores the fierce clench of his muscles and the swimming of his head and makes his march towards his deathbed.

He makes it three steps before his spine twists and his knees crumple beneath him. 

The little moments of respite in between the spasms are growing shorter and shorter. He should be used to it by now, but it still hurts. 

As he falls he expects the stairs to rush up to meet him (and wouldn’t that be the greatest irony: that he would die not from the poison or the press, but at the hands of his own stubbornness), but arms grab him at his shoulders, slowing his fall. He barely notices them against the pain. It hurts, it _hurts,_ like every synapse in his body is firing simultaneously and burning him alive. Fire races up his spine and through every twisting line of his body. He feels like a marionette doll thrown down into a disjointed heap, limbs twisted until they stop resembling a human at all. Good thing he hasn’t felt fully human in a while. The pain overwhelms.

There’s one single moment of weakness, where the pain almost wins out against his ambitions and he wishes he’d just spilled his brains across the floor to be done with it all instead of drawing it out. More than the spasms and Momota’s hands lowering him to the topmost stair, he hates that thought the worst of all. 

“ _Christ_ , Ouma,” Momota hisses as he tucks Ouma’s head into the crook of his shoulder as though he could absorb the shocks rattling through him. As though he _cares_.   

This time Ouma does laugh. Momota jerks at the sound, but miraculously he doesn’t pull away. Face pressed deep into the fabric of Momota’s wrinkled white dress shirt, Ouma lets loose a long, hysteric stream of laughter that seems endless and still not long enough. His back goes concave and his fingers claw for control and he laughs and laughs until there’s no more air left in his lungs, until his throat begins to sting.

All the while, Momota’s hand is steady and unmoving on the curve of his neck. 

Ouma’s pride gnashes its teeth and begs for the press to swallow him up already, but something deeper in him still doesn’t pull away. Weak. Even as the pain begins to roll out of him again in slowly abating waves, he doesn’t move away just yet. _Weak_.

The spaces left behind in the wake of the pain feel murky. Hazy. His thoughts feel cotton-thick and the room feels far off. Momota’s shoulder is warm against his forehead, the only thing grounding him to this last, lingering moment. The last one, huh? Images drift up from the haze. He thinks of shot-puts and water tanks, cages and snow-covered rooftops. He thinks of stacks of books with no meaning in a library, of words carved into stone. 「 _Who but I could have made it this far?_ 」 the voice echoes. 

_Only one more box to check off_ , it taunts from the haze. 

“Hey,” Momota says, somewhere caught between put-off and concerned. “Say something. You being quiet is starting to freak me out.”

When Ouma finds his voice past the hoarse burn of his throat, the first thing that works its way out of his swimming thoughts is, “ _‘As the gods are my witness, I taxed my powers to the utmost.’_ ”

“What?” Momota replies, ever the eloquent one. 

Not like Ouma has a much better explanation. He’s not sure why himself, but he continues regardless. 

_“‘Ah,’”_ he lets out on a rasping sigh, _“‘Should I not live on, in corruption and wickedness? I have my home in the village. I have my sheep. Surely my sister and her husband would not drive me from my home.'"_

This time Momota is quiet. Ouma burns with the lingering pain and an odd sense of shame alike. Still, he continues. “‘ _Righteousness, trust, love – are they not merely words? We kill others that we may live. That is the way of the world. And how futile it all is. I am a vile, deceitful traitor. Whatever I do is of no importance.._ ’  

“‘ _There is still time before sunset_ ,’” he absently mutters. 

Then, without warning, he lifts his chin and cuts a harsh smile in Momota’s direction. It spooks the boy enough that he flinches back, smacking his head on the railing behind him with a muttered curse. Ouma takes the opportunity to put distance between them. 

“Oh,” he continues with a playful (if not tired) lilt, “but no one waits for me, right?”

The look Momota sends him is equal parts exasperated and concerned. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Ouma hums, rolling his head away from Momota’s searching gaze and up to the ceiling. “A message for Saihara-chan. Probably. Could you pass it on to him?”

He can hear the frown in Momota’s voice as he says, “What the hell kind of message was that?”

“Somehow the idea that you sucked at Lit doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Ouma replies. He looks back at Momota and flashes him another smile. This one doesn’t bite as fiercely as the others, but he’s disappointed all the same to see that damned searching expression on the other boy’s face. Furrowed brow, tight frown. He thought he was used to it (book-stacks and hidden doors and dust motes in the air), but from Momota it almost feels like he’s lost at something.  

“Enough dilly-dallying,” he says ( _a deflection_ ), gesturing at his clenching muscles with a flourish. “I’m tired of dragging this show out. Script’s next to the control panel, the buttons are very big and shiny so even a neanderthal like you won’t miss them. You got that, big guy?”

He waits for the banter to fill back in, but he’s met with silence instead. When he looks, Momota is extending a hand out towards him. There’s apprehension in his gaze and in the way he holds himself, but his hand doesn’t waver. “Here.”

Ouma quirks an eyebrow up at him and croons, “Oh how chivalrous of you Momota-chan! I could almost gag!” 

“Shut up,” he fires back. It lacks any heat.

The standoff between them is tense but short-lived. Momota’s hand grips his tightly and he pointedly doesn’t think about the last time someone held his hand like this, even if his eyes gravitate to the faint line of the scab across his index finger. He doesn’t relish the feeling of skin and warmth under the pads of his fingers, knowing it’ll be the last time. That would be just another weakness. 

When Momota presses him too far at the last moment and the mask slips ( _“As if_ ** _anyone_** _could enjoy this kind of game!”_ ), he wipes the remnants of hot, angry tears from his cheeks and tries not to admit to himself that he’s been weak this whole time. 

Momota doesn’t say anything after that, which he is thankful for, even as it stings of pity. 

“I always hated you _shounen_ protagonist types,” Ouma half-laughs, half-wheezes later, as Momota has to help him climb atop his deathbed. He’s finding it hard to move much on his own, his muscles too tired from overuse. “C-Can’t relate, y’know?”

Momota scoffs. “I’m not doing this for you,” he says, but he gently eases Ouma back against his bed of stars all the same. 

“L-Liar,” Ouma sneers, and doesn’t it feel good to throw that back at him. At Momota’s indignant squawk, he elaborates, “Of course you’re doing this for me. My p-plan after all. That’s what you said, right?”

Momota glares at him, but he looks… conflicted. Confused, maybe, but not mad. He’s supposed to be _mad_. “For one goddamn second can you not be such a little shit?” he growls out.

_Can you just be real with me_ , is what he means, probably.  

Ha! What a thought.

_Hasn’t he earned it_ , says the voice at the back of his mind again, demanding and firm. Always trying so hard to get something out of him, isn’t it? It sounds familiar (card games and knives and bandaged fingers) but he doesn’t want to go there. Not now. _Isn’t his head also going on the chopping block? After all he’s done and going to do for you, didn’t he earn it? Now that you have nothing else left?_

_Didn’t we all?_

 

「 _I have been an honest man in life. Allow me to be as honest in death._ 」

 

Ouma’s a fair person, he thinks, but not that fair. 

He smiles up at Momota, too tired to be anything more than it is, and says, “Ask me again on the other side. Maybe this machine will squeeze out all of that nastiness in me and I’ll be nice enough to give you a straight answer then.”

They’ll get it right, or maybe they won’t. The voice is right about one thing: the sun is setting on this game and he’s all out of moves. If this one is his last one, then so be it. He can at least admit, in this final moment to himself, that he can entrust them with that much.  

 

「 _I am running because of something immeasurably greater and more fearsome than death._ 」

 

He stares into Momota’s space-deep eyes—far too wide and far too honest—and says, “Tick-tock, Momota-chan.”

And Momota—as tired and pissed off and frustrated as he must be—still gives Ouma’s shoulder a firm, final squeeze before standing up.

“Remember, both buttons at once!” Ouma calls after him, holding up three shaking fingers in front of his face and lowering the first one with great effort.

Momota stops from where he’d been turning to leave. “Yeah.”

“And no leaving the Exisal once you’re in there,” Ouma says, lowering the second finger. 

“Right.”

“And,” he ticks off the last of his fingers. “Don’t forget my message to Saihara-chan.”

Momota’s brow scrunches up. “You think I remember a single thing of what you said?”

Ouma rolls his eyes and, using the last of his strength, he drags Momota down by the crumpled, unbuttoned placket of his shirt. Before he can protest, he leans in—mouth to ear—and breathes his final message into the boy’s ear. A shorter one this time. Then he lets go, and Momota slowly rises back to standing. Ouma plasters on a grin to hide the shameful thudding of his chest. “Is that one simple enough for you?”

Momota looks down at him, expression confused but still disgustingly pitiful, and says, “Yeah. I got it.”

As Momota turns his back and heads to the control panel, Ouma watches him go and wonders how far the wind will carry those broad shoulders of his.

And if not Momota’s—if all of this still slips through their fingers regardless of all their hard work—then he wonders if those same winds will treat their trump card just as favorably.

Momota slips out of view and Ouma breathes out a ragged sigh, finally allowing the mask to drop. Yes, he might be out of time, but in his death, he can at least make sure there are other sunsets to come.

 

「 _Run for all you are worth. Perhaps, just perhaps, there may still be time._ 」

 

The machine shudders to life. Ouma can see the rough outline of his own reflection in the scratched-up steel, outlined in the waning light like Syracuse in the distance. He breathes out his final words—that final message—feeling them brush across his face as the press descends.

 

 

“ _Run, Melos._ ”

 

 

 

_(The third Selinuntius wouldn’t know of his role as Melos’ wager until it was too late._

_Not until he’d already picked apart every last seam of Ouma’s well-woven plans._

_Not until he’d unraveled every one of Momota’s lies._

_Not until both of those guiding suns had set._

 

_What a strange turn of events it is, that their Selinuntius should inherit their role as Melos in the end._ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

Saihara is a curious thing, Ouma decides ( _weeks and weeks earlier_ ) as he watches the boy-detective scurry off back to the (very) relative safety of his room. Too spineless to be threatening, but too compelling to be written off completely just yet, he thinks. If the killing game is so intent on bringing out their basest instincts, he’s interested to see how the Detective’s metamorphosis will pan out.

Will the shrinking daisy turn himself into a beautiful butterfly, or is he destined to stay preserved as a sad, lifeless chrysalis forever?

Ouma seats himself down with his back against the far bookcase and tilts his head up towards the ceiling. His eyes catch hold on the unfolded book peeking over the lip of the shelf and he thinks about shot puts and keycards and utterly wasted potential. He thinks about the two contrasting flavors of self-importance they’d all had a taste of just yesterday: Akamatsu’s saccharine-sweet altruism and Amami’s rich, dark secrecy. 

For all their high-flown intentions, it was a shame neither had held much worth in the end. Both martyrdoms taste nothing but bitter to Ouma. If he has to take the stage in their absence, he won’t let himself be quite so predictable, nor quite so vulnerable. 

_How_ , though. That’s the real question. A game is only as interesting as its rules, after all, but then what does one do when the rule _maker_ is willing to become the rule _breaker_? 

Perhaps, he figures, it’s most advantageous to _follow_ the new script, to play along until he can trace that breadcrumb trail right back to the source. It’s not an advantageous position, but that’s what makes it all the more fun. Everybody loves a comeback kid.

He sneers up at the shelf with crossed eyes and imagines another shot put rolling down to greet him. No, can’t have that. If the mastermind is going to open with a rigged gambit, he’ll just have to set up his own.

 

「 _That is why I must run. I run because of that faith, that trust._ _Whether I make it in time is not the question._

_Nor is it merely a question of one man’s life._ 」

 

So he flips open another book and tucks his little notepad between the pages and gets to work. So many code combinations, so little time to test them out. Especially with so many eyes peeping around every corner. 

If a shot at winning means he might eventually have to bargain up his own life, then so be it.

 

「 _Executioner! It is I! I am the one to be put to death. I am Melos._ 」

 

 

 

( _The irony, in the end, is that he himself was always Selinuntius, offered up as his own wager for the sake of the others._

_For now, though, he still thinks himself Melos, with the utmost faith he’ll make it back before sunset_.)

**Author's Note:**

> *blows a kiss to the sky* that one was for you, Japanese-Lit-Professor-Whose-Name-I-Definitely-Don't-Remember-Anymore
> 
> So lmao this somehow took me 3 months to write. Thanks to Lauren for listening to me hem and haw over it for that entire time.
> 
> For those of you interested in reading _Run, Melos!_ / _Hashire, Merosu!_ in full, [here's](https://rawrvolitans.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/run-melos-osamu-dazai/) the lovely translation that I used for most of the quotes
> 
> You can find me [here](http://devicing.tumblr.com) on tumblr and comments/constructive critiques are always appreciated!


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